from the Morning Post. "A Moore comedy, They're clever stuff,
Moore's comedies: always well written, and well put on when Hadow
has a hand in it. You never were a playgoer, Bernard."

"Not I," said Bernard Clowes. He and his guest were smoking
together in the hall after breakfast, Lawrence imparting items of
news from the Morning Post, while Bernard, propped up in a
sitting attitude on the latest model of invalid couch, turned
over and sorted on a swing table a quantity of curios mainly in
copper, steel, and iron. Both swing-table and couch had been
bought in London by Lawrence, and to his vigorous protests it was
also due that the great leaved doors were thrown wide to the
amber sunshine: while the curios came out of one of his Eastern
packing-cases, which he had had unpacked by Gaston for Bernard to
take what he liked. Lawrence's instincts were acquisitive, not
to say predatory. Wherever he went he amassed native treasures
which seemed to stick to his fingers, and which in nine cases out
of ten, thanks to his racial tact, would have fetched at
Christie's more than he gave for them. Coming fresh from foreign
soil, they were a godsend to Bernard, who was weary of collecting
from collectors' catalogues. "Can I have this flint knife?
Egyptian, isn't it? Oh, thanks awfully, I'm taking all the
best." This was true. But Lawrence, like most of his nation,
gave freely when he gave at all. "No, I never was one for plays
except Gilbert and Sullivan and the 'Merry Widow' and things like
that with catchy tunes in 'em. Choruses." He gave a reminiscent
laugh.

"Legs?" suggested Lawrence.

"Exactly," said Bernard, winking at him. "Oh damn!" A mechanical
jerk of his own legs had tilted the table and sent the knife
rolling on the floor. Lawrence picked it up for him, drew his
feet down, and tucked a rug over his hips.

"Mind that box of Burmese darts, old man, they're poisoned.-- I
used to be an inveterate first-nighter. Still am, in fact, when
I'm in or near town. I can sit out anything from 'Here We Are
Again' to 'Samson Agonistes.' To be frank, I rather liked
'Samson': it does one's ears good to listen to that austere,
delicate English."

"How long would these take to polish one off?"

"Ten or twelve hours, chiefly in the form of a hoop. No, Berns,
I can't recommend them." He drew from its jewelled sheath and put
into Bernard's hands a Persian dagger nine inches long, the naked
blade damascened in wa